“Oh ay, Jack, I have read it afore now.”
“Well, and does thou mind how he threaps again’ th’ flesh?”
“To be sure,” said I.
“Now look ye here,” saith he. “Here’s my hand,”—and he reacheth forth a great brown paw. “Does thou see it?”
“Ay, I am thankful I have eyes good enough for that, Jack!”
“Well—this hand’s made o’ flesh, does thou wit?”
“I reckon so much, Jack.”
“Good. Well, Paul he says we’re none to mind th’ things o’ th’ flesh, but only th’ things o’ th’ spirit. Your spirit’s your thoughts and meditations like. And that’s why women’s such ill uns—because they are alway minding th’ things o’ th’ flesh: scrubbing, and washing, and baking, and sewing, and such like. And it stands to reason, Mistress Milisent, that what ye do wi’ th’ flesh mun be th’ things o’ th’ flesh. Does thou see?”
“Well, Jack, I am afeared I do not entirely.”
“Get thee gone!” saith he. “Women never can see nought. They’re ill uns, I tell ye—they’re ill uns!”